


Strays

by Strigoi17



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: (kind of?), Blood Play, M/M, Vampire AU, Vampires, sex slaves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strigoi17/pseuds/Strigoi17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Koujaku, a vampire addicted to another vampire's blood, is traded a half-vampire blood slave named Aoba. Through a tangle of political corruption, obsessive sex and terrifyingly tender feelings, Koujaku's life unravels from the insides out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strays

**Author's Note:**

> uhhh yeah hi i started a vampire fic to write during the week while i'm not writing my beastjaku fic i hope you guys like??

The night is colorless and wet; the rain bleeds through his clothes and drowns him in a bitter, senseless cold that chokes his lungs and leaves him breathless. It stings the newborn cuts and bruises pepper coating his neck and torso. He’s used to the cold, and the emptiness it instills in him. He’s used to the desolate discomfort and the pain.

The man ahead of him is, too; he staggers, wounded, palm braced on the slick brick wall beside him. Nao can hear him breathing and feel the blood pulse sluggishly under his skin: the false, inhuman heat, devoured by the downpour, draws him in.

Nao is small; he never had the chance to grow into his body or to grow out of the knobby elbows that pin the other man against the wall. He couldn’t be more than fifteen, but the wounded, pale man beneath his grip has no strength left to struggle against him.

His skin breaks beneath Nao’s teeth like tissue paper. His blood is stale, dead, but still warm; Nao guzzles it, impatiently, greedily, not out of hunger or thirst but out of pure spite. As it floods his senses, he’s suddenly and unexpectedly enthralled by the taste. He drinks him dry, obsessed with the sweetness, until he’s nothing but weathered skin and dusty muscles.

 

The room is sculpted of African Blackwood, red velvet and cigarette smoke. Koujaku lounges in an ostentatious, silk-backed chair, right leg crossed over his left and both hands folded together on the table. Balanced on its face are three glasses full of deep, syrupy scarlet.

“It was started by the Morphine coven.” Koujaku shakes his head resolutely, draping his fingers around the neck of his glass. The ponytail at the base of his neck is elegant but tight enough to agitate the migraine reverberating between his eyebrows. “Platinum was provoked into action, and that’s my final statement.”

Virus is dressed in a black blazer and red plaid pants. His collar is turned up and his cheeks are hollow; his eyes are trained, unnervingly steady, on Koujaku’s. “Honestly, Koujaku, that’s the route you’re taking? And so soon into the evening.”

“There weren’t any casualties.” He shakes his head, finally taking a sip from the goblet. Rich and gratifying, it chills his nerves and levels his head, but doesn’t do much to help his headache.

“I think we both know that isn’t true.” Virus’s voice is still subdued, but needle-sharp edges threaten his composure. “From what I remember, we’re down one in our ranks. Do I feel being pulled over my eyes?”

“Blatant lying would be a good enough reason to break the Cease-Fire, had it not already been.” Trip chimes in, seated next to Virus at the head of the table.

“Nao did so after the fight was over.” Koujaku retorts, pointing his index and middle fingers at the two. “And is, like I said before, only a child.”

“And how long has he been a child, Koujaku?”

He doesn’t have an answer, so he dodges the question. “He’s being aptly dealt with, for a newborn. And besides – I remember it being your coven’s _ranks_ that started the first bloodshed. I have more than enough reason to believe it was for the very reason we’ve been trying to stamp down for centuries.” He wasn’t backing down. “And, as I also remember, _I_ called this conference. For repercussions on your behalf.”

Virus gives a bright laugh, turning his head slightly to the right. “Are you implying blood wars, Koujaku?”

The addictive tendencies embedded, molecule-deep, in their biological makeup were inevitable; the addiction to human blood was to the extent of necessity, but to that of their own kind was an inescapable pitfall that had first started the war between their two covens.

“We taste good – to each other. Morphine to Platinum, back and forth – despite that irrefutable fact, I don’t remember anyone in the Morphine coven attacking the Platinum. It was your people that attacked mine; past newborns, blood addiction is anything but common, wouldn’t you think?”

“Blood addiction is a serious epidemic.” Virus counters, finally frowning. “One we’ve been nursing in our newborns _very_ diligently, and one our matured members have avoided completely.”

“Which I believe.” Koujaku tips his body forward, resting both elbows on the tabletop. “What I don’t believe, though? That there’s no way your dead newborn didn’t strike first. It would be a shame, I think, if any of the neighboring covens found out that Morphine can’t control their blood-guzzling newborns.”

Virus was stuck; he leaned forward on the table, chin leaned on both fists. Had Koujaku not known his argument was solid, the smile adorning his lips would seem infallible. He had forgotten, already, that Koujaku didn’t tie into Morphine’s manipulation.

“It seems… we’ve hit a bump in our meeting. However,” One hand drops to the table, tracing a tight circle on the waxed mahogany. “I do think we might have an offer that could… smooth things over.”

The meeting was casual, compact, unguarded; it was just the three of them seated at the table, otherwise alone in the huge, extensively decorated chamber. Bribes between their covens weren’t uncommon, especially since Virus and Trip had become Morphine’s heads.

“An offer?” The next drink is better than the last; it drums through his chest and gradually dissipates into his bloodstream, warm and succulent as honey.

“An offer.” Both blondes chime at once.

“Interest piqued.” He confirms, setting the glass down gingerly.

“We’ve recently had an upturn in blood slaves.” Virus raises a thin eyebrow and says the words slowly. “And I’m thinking, perhaps, that it’s understandable enough if one were to go missing along with its paperwork.”

“…Blood slaves?” Property of the highest elite: a dhampyr born from noble purebloods and humans, sold into servitude by petrified mothers and bastard fathers. An alliance of Morphine, Dry Juice, specializes in their trade: it was near impossible for Platinum to get their hands on any number of them. A tremor of excitement starts in Koujaku’s heart.

“He’s a bit… used.” Virus disclaims, finger on the table falling still. “Dry Juice’s leader had him before we got him. But that only means that he’s older – more your style, I hope?”

The idea is enticing, captivating; it thrills Koujaku to his core. “Discreet shipping.”

“Discreet shipping.” Virus pinches together his index and his thumb, runs them across his lips. “Need-to-know foreign affairs business.”

Koujaku leans back in his chair. The delighted energy settles as firm resolve in his shoulders; a decision cements in his mind. “How quickly can he be delivered?”

 

Platinum Jail’s halls are tall and black-lacquered. The heels of Koujaku’s boots echo and ricochet on the reflective metal of the walls and the noise aches in his skull; hunger crackles and booms in his stomach like thunder, an ache that started numb and grew steadily more insistent. Thirst clicks in the back of his throat each time he swallows, pangs in his jaw. A harsh, insistent craving sits in his chest, pounding at his ribs like a caged animal.

He needs him. With every beat of his heart, the necessity swells, slowly encompasses him from the inside out. A clammy sweat breaks out along the back of his neck, an icy anxiety starts in his chest and a shiver kickstarts in his hands. Koujaku can taste him on his lips, the sweetness, the heat – the memory devours him, reminds him how badly he needs it, gnaws on the edges of his brain until every thought in the entirety of his brain is focused on his empty mouth.

He has to have it – he has to have it.

Koujaku kicks open his door with an excited, thoughtless force. It smacks against Ryuuhou’s wall, and his sharp, muted eyes glance up to Koujaku with an amused impatience. “Shut the door.”

He tries to sound dignified: he plans out, mentally, what he’s going to say. In his head, it’s linear – but when he speaks, it skids from his lips, chaotic and frenzied. “I – I need it.” He swallows painfully past the daggers lining his throat.

Every vein in his body is alight with the burning urgency, the irrepressible demand that threatens to drive him mad. He shuts the door by leaning back against it; he fights to collect his thoughts, to try and save his self-respect, but the elder blonde’s head swivels, looking fully to Koujaku, and exposes the pale curve of his neck. Koujaku can see the subtle map of veins tracing across skin, inviting him in. When he stumbles forward, tripping over his own feet, he can smell the blood pumping beneath Ryuuhou’s skin, pure and steady. “I need it, please, I need it, give it to me – ”

“Shhh.” He smiles, a taunt, a tease, and pats his lap. One hand loosens his tie, bringing the blue silk away from his neck, as his opposite flicks a cigarette into the ashtray beside him. He parts his lips and cigarette smoke dribbles out of them, opaque and silvery; when his mouth opens, knife-edged canines glint just behind his lips.

Koujaku fits in his lap perfectly; the immediate mix of warm blood and cold skin is intoxicating. His neck goes weak and he rests his cheek on Ryuuhou’s shoulder, breath deep and shaky. Both palms raise and press against the small of his back, bleeding heat through his shirt. With his right hand Koujaku pulls away Ryuuhou’s tie, and with his left he peels back the collar of his shirt. The scent wafting from his neck tightens his stomach like a fist; in his hands, Ryuuhou’s neck was vulnerable and inviting. Within moments, he has dissolved, naked and weak, in the face of his next fix.

He dips into his neck and pricks his skin with an overwhelming urge of eager apprehension.

Harsh euphoria darts into Koujaku’s stomach and he moans, creamy and blissful, his mind empty but full of bloodlust. Hypnotized by the rush of blood against his lips, his tense muscles relax and he presses himself tightly against Ryuuhou’s chest, fitting his body against the older blonde’s. “Hhhhaa…”

Elder blood was delectably ensnaring: honeyed and aromatic, it aged in Ryuuhou’s veins like wine. He’s slipping, tumbling, spiraling down into the mindless black of Ryuuhou’s blood. Helpless to the compulsions wrecking his mind, he gives small, elated whines into his neck; tucked away in his pants, his dick is hard.

Ryuuhou’s fingers, sharp-nailed and slender-boned, creep up the back of Koujaku’s untucked shirt. They slip across his cold, feverish skin and send jolts of skittish energy through his muscles. Finally overcome by the high, Ryuuhou’s head falls back and relies on Koujaku’s hand, braced on his chin. Ardent and thoughtless, the younger, darker vampire bucks his hips up against Ryuuhou’s, sparking delicious friction between them.

Thin fingers fist in his hair, feeding succulent resistance into his mind. Ryuuhou’s touch is exhilarating, engulfing, and Koujaku’s entire body evaporates into it.

After days of craving him, yearning for his taste, Koujaku breaks down into his most carnal instincts. Wriggling in Ryuuhou’s lap, raptured, he lets out heavy arrowheads of breath and fissured moans against his white skin. He becomes one with the pleasure twanging in his chest, melts into Ryuuhou and diffuses into him.

He hates himself. He despises how pathetic he is; he’s disgusted by how dependent he is on his taste and his touch. The addiction drums deep in his veins, the pain and the airless high. He hates himself, but he needs it, he needs it, he needs it.

Ryuuhou unbuttons his pants, slipping his hand down into Koujaku’s underwear. He shivers, skin overly sensitive to Ryuuhou’s touch, but leans up into his hand. Hair-thin strands of pleasure tangle through his legs, has his hips canting into Ryuuhou’s hand and letting manic whimpers stumble through his lips from high in his throat.

“Oh, you’re so eager.” His voice is high and quiet against Koujaku’s ear. “Have you been waiting?”

A quick jerk against Koujaku’s dick; he lets out a loud, earnest grunt against Ryuuhou’s neck, a keen of desperate need. It vibrates in his throat it raises in pitch, a moan cracked in two, a grunt turned into a scream, and Ryuuhou only uses the incentive to settle a rhythm against Koujaku’s cock. The thighs wrapped around his waist tighten, wound up in the toxic delirium.

He feels alive. His pulse rockets and his skin burns, fervent stimulation and ardent euphoria rocking his bones. Restless, he writhes in Ryuuhou’s lap like an impatient child, powerless to control himself.

“What a good boy,” he coos, pressing a gentle kiss to Koujaku’s jawline. “Obedient pet, so hooked.”

Koujaku’s tipsy on his superior’s blood, an intoxication that has him following every word like spoken gospel. His eyes roll back in his head and he grunts in agreement, gulping down the liquefied diamonds with a newfound urgency.

When he comes, Koujaku digs his teeth further into Ryuuhou’s neck, burying himself in the airy blessedness of the moment. Every nerve folded beneath his skin is on fire, trembling in pleasure; he rocks against Ryuuhou, riding out the orgasm until he tires himself out.

He hangs weakly from Ryuuhou’s shoulders, arms linked behind his neck. Slowly, his heart stills in his chest – he falls back down to earth gradually, dips his toes against the ground and lets his self-hatred gestate in silence.

“Oh…” Ryuuhou traces his forefinger down the back of Koujaku’s neck. “Have you gotten your fill?”

Koujaku wants to leave; the embarrassment thuds through him with a terrifying intensity. His limbs, however, are weak, lost to the lightness and incoherence of his mind.

“Yes.” He sighs through gritted teeth. “I’m full.”


End file.
